


Sound

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-11
Updated: 2006-03-11
Packaged: 2018-08-16 04:37:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8087593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: T'Pol ponders various sensory, sensible and nonsensical information during her stay in sickbay after a mission gone awry. (08/03/2003)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

Pounding of feet on the run. Heavy, tired feet, several pairs of them: Ensign Sato, Captain Archer, Commander Tucker. Faltering, skidding and regaining balance in a repeating pattern. The insistent creaking of gravel and small pebbles. Sand. The sound of drifting time in an hourglass. It must be difficult to run in the dunes.

It seems like a lifetime creeping by, although it must have been only a few minutes. The shuttlepod is not very far off.

I can hear the steps decidedly closer than I am used to; I am being carried. It is Commander Tucker who is carrying me, but my senses tell me otherwise; in fact my senses are curiously silent. It unsettles me slightly. My center of balance is out of alignment and I have problems judging my position in relation to the ground. As I am thinking this I grow steadily more dizzy, what with the not-so-subtle juggling, and my breakfast - porridge - makes its way back into my throat. I know that my fingers must be clutching the front of Commander Tucker's uniform, and I feel ashamed briefly, but the fact that I cannot feel the material between my fingertips takes priority. I try to will the tendons and muscles to move, but the response is weak, so weak. I must look pitiful. I sincerely hope Commander Tucker will not mention this when the first opportunity has arisen.

I wish to open my eyes, even as I muse that to leave oneself in the dark can keep the hopes much higher than knowledge of the undoubtedly worsening situation outside. Another fiasco. Why am I not surprised? I am distracting myself with these thoughts, while I struggle to clear away the peach-hued haze and shadows flickering over the field of my vision. My inner eyelid, I realize. It closed on reflex in the moment of impact of the blast, and has not opened since. The head wound must be much worse than I thought initially. I may have miscalculated the risks after all.

Shouting. The soft whirring of phase weapons being loaded, then the high-pitched keening of fire all around us, filling the air. I breathe in the tinge of discharged ozone. I expect any moment the body I am propped up against to jerk, and the long drop to the ground; I am readying myself silently for the inevitable pain. None of this happens. Yes, it seems that chance is working in our favor once again, and completely ignores the statistical distribution of the possibility to not be hit in a crossfire.

Starfleet-issue boots ring out on a metal plated deck and bring an odd sensation of...calm. Now - one of them has just fallen out of sync and is struggling to keep up. His steps fade into the turmoil behind our backs. Of course he is slowing down; he has a superficial wound on his right thigh. Someone should go and help him; the odds to bring him back are still quite favorable...There. One, two, three pairs of feet again.

The deep rumble of the entry hatch finally echoes in my bones and the shuttlepod engines whine to life.


End file.
